


Reunion

by rustandstardust



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:50:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustandstardust/pseuds/rustandstardust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years after Himuro graduates from high school, Kagami invites him to come with he and Kise for the Parisian fashion week. He accepts it on a whim - after all, he's never been to Paris - but he doesn't expect to really <i>do</i> much there. He ends up running into the last person he would have ever expected; someone from his days at Yosen, someone who might have been something to him, once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unexpected

The invitation for an all-expenses-paid, week-long vacation in Paris had been surprising when Taiga had offered it.  He’d said Kise would be busy getting fitted for everything he’s modeling, and that he’d hardly get to see him _not_ on a runway aside from waking up in the morning and going to sleep at night for the duration of their stay and he’d practically _begged_ Himuro to come. Not that it took much convincing, of course – Taiga is his little brother, his best friend, and he’d jump at the chance to spend more time with him.

He doesn’t know how Taiga stands it, sometimes. The lifestyle is demanding and even for someone like himself who had always kind of craved fame and notoriety, always being in the spotlight as Kise Ryouta’s boyfriend would get to be a little much.  The schedule is intense, he knows from Taiga’s e-mail messages, but even the way he talks about being too tired to think, and too annoyed with prissy models to put up with it any longer, Himuro can hear the smile in his voice when he talks about how happy Kise is. Himuro is still amazed himself that awkward, silly little Taiga had ended up with arguably the most famous male model in all of Japan. He’d been certain that his brother would end up with the doe-eyed little shadow he’d played with all through high school, but from what Taiga had told him, Kuroko had gone running back to Aomine the moment they’d graduated. Kise had told him over and over how happy he was that he’d met Kagami Taiga, to the point where Himuro thinks that if he tells him again, he just might strangle the peppy little thing. Having spent the entire flight over with him and the first day they’d arrived with the two of them, he understands why Kagami needs someone to spend time with – after Kise constantly; he probably doesn’t know what to do if he’s alone.

Himuro  isn’t big on fashion (he knows what looks good, of course, but the newest haute couture hasn’t ever been a big concern) but he has to admit, the guaranteed admission to the fashion shows is nothing to balk at. He thinks it might be worth it, just to see the smile on Taiga’s face – his little brother deserves to be happy, and Kise is cute enough.

\--

The past few days, he’s been to what seems like every tourist spot in Paris. He’d dragged Taiga to the Louvre one morning and the Centre Pompidou the next and his little brother had _hated_ it. They’d been to the top of the Eiffel Tower and breathed wishes for the rest of their lives off its balcony, laughing all the while. He’d wanted to go underground to the Catacombs but Taiga had invented excuse after excuse, delaying them at shop after shop finding things he claimed Kise would love as gifts until it had been too late to go, and they were closed the next day. Taiga could be such a baby, sometimes, Himuro teased, and he hadn’t been able to resist the urge later to sneak up on him in the dark and scare him with a ghostly moan. His favorite had been their visit to Montmartre, where he’d had at least ten artists beg to paint his portrait (“Even though you’re still a brooder, you get all these people fawning over you, still,” Taiga had said, and Himuro had punched him so hard in the arm Kagami yelped out loud) and everything had been so refreshing and colorful.

Today had been different. Today, he’d knocked on the door of Taiga’s hotel room promptly at 8 AM so they could go out for another day of sightseeing and heard muffled giggling instead of Taiga saying irritably that he was getting ready, hold on. It’d taken a few moments longer than normal for the door to open, and when Kagami came to the door he was wrapped in a sheet from the messy bed instead of anything resembling a suitable outfit for sightseeing. Himuro leaned around him and saw the reason for Taiga’s state of undress rolled up in the messy bedsheets.

“Himurocchi!” Kise exclaimed as he waved enthusiastically and propped himself up in bed. His own sheet slips down on his hips, exposing pretty, creamy skin “Have you been enjoying Paris?”

“It’s wonderful!” Himuro answers before turning back to Kagami. “I see how it is, Taiga. Ditching your older brother for some hot model ass?”

“That’s not what it is!” Kagami protested, waving his arms and damn near dropping the sheet he’s clutching around his waist. “It’s just...he ended up not having to be at the studio for one of his designers until 1, so we...kinda wanted to have a lazy morning in bed. Are you mad? We can all go out if you want.”

“Easy, Tiger,” Himuro laughs. “I totally get it. I’ll head to a café or something until 1, and I’ll meet you back here?”

“You’re the best, Tatsuya,” Kagami breathes out a relieved sigh, scowling when Kise blows Himuro a kiss and the door slams. _Well then_.

\--

It’s cold out, with a light dusting of wet, sleety snow coating the streets and he’s glad for the boots he brought instead of his usual sneakers. His jeans don’t do much against the light wind chill, but the sweater he’s wearing under his coat keeps him nice and warm. There’s not a lot of people out, save for a few early-morning shoppers milling around the streets with bags balanced on their arms, and he wonders if Milan was this dead (he knows they were there a week prior, for the start of men’s fashion week) and wishes for a moment that he could have gone there, too, if for no other reason that watching Taiga rub elbows with Kise’s famous friends.

He imagines Taiga speaking Italian for a few moments; Taiga, who can’t even speak Japanese with the proper honorifics _still_ and whose staple of English greetings is “yo”.  It’s so funny that he can’t help the laugh that slips out, loud and unattractive, startling a pigeon sitting on a park bench as he walks down the street. Kise speaks French fluently, and he had gotten through Italy on good looks and a language guidebook, but Taiga on the other hand can barely order a bottle of water. Himuro remembers French language courses for fun the first three years at UCLA and he’s glad they’re serving at least some purpose now; he’s managed to make it through Paris without anyone struggling to finish his sentences for him because he can’t be understood. If only he’d gotten to see the City of Lights at a time other than early January, he thinks as he kicks a clump of dirty snow off his boot against the edge of the sidewalk, _goddamn_. Still, it’s a welcome break from LA, where the temperatures rarely seem to drop below 55 even in the middle of January; the Parisian streets are biting cold and are great for clearing his mind. Not that he’s _too_ stressed; his job isn’t that demanding, after all. He stops once in a cute little shop to buy a scarf that he’s pretty sure Alex will _love_ , and after he walks for what feels like an hour and the cold has turned his pale cheeks flushed red, he looks around for a café. There’s one on the corner that looks small and mostly empty, and the rush of warm air and heavenly smells that flood out when the door opens cements his decision and he walks in, kicking his boots off as he does. It’s gorgeous inside; richly decorated with plush armchairs around a fireplace and small, intimate tables pressed up against the windows with patterns of ice spider-webbing across the outsides of. There’s a huge counter spanning one whole side of the spacious room and his stomach rumbles, reminding him that he forgot to order a room-service breakfast before he set out from the hotel. Everything smells good, looks good, and it takes him a moment of looking over their coffee selections before he opts for the old standard he gets from coffee shops back home.

“Café au lait,” he says idly, ordering his coffee as he bends down to glance over the tantalizing array of pastries and breads in the display case in front of him. “Et...un pain au chocolat, s’il-vous plait.” There’s no way to go wrong with chocolate, right? God, he hasn’t really sat and enjoyed _good_ chocolate since...high school, when convenience store snacks and candies had been a big staple of his diet.

“Soyez prudent, c’est chaud,” a worker says as he passes the steaming pastry wrapped in a napkin over the case. Himuro can smell the dark chocolate already and he reaches for it eagerly, but when he grasps it there’s the faintest little jolt when their fingers touch. It throws him off-guard, and he reaches into his pocket for his wallet and fumbles a little, tucking the magazine he’d brought to flip through under his arm while he counts out the money.

“I’m sorry,” Himuro starts, lapsing back into the English he’s comfortable with now and realizing it too late. Great, he’s going to seem like one of _those_ tourists who don’t even0020bother to learn the language when they come to a foreign country. “Je suis désolé,” he mumbles, suddenly ill at ease without knowing why. He starts to turn around and head for that small table in the corner that’s calling his name when an endearment he hasn’t heard in _years_ reaches his ears.

“Muro-chin?”

There’s no way. He’s hearing things, he must be. The only person who’d called him that had been...well, it had been someone from the past, that’s for sure. Someone who might have meant _something_ years ago; all the way back in high school in Akita, in a life he’d left behind when he’d moved back to the States. He turns around slowly and comes face to face with a blast from the past he’d never expected to see in _Paris_ of all places and feels his heart jump up somewhere in the region of his throat.

“Atsushi?” In retrospect, he’s not sure why he asked to clarify. There’s only one 7 foot tall, purple-haired man he’s ever known and there’s absolutely no denying that he’s standing right before him in an impressive white uniform with the café’s name emblazoned on the pocket of the apron. “What are you _doing_ here?”

Murasakibara lapses back into Japanese as easily as one might put on a favorite shoe, easily and eagerly. “I started college, but I hated it. Too tiresome, and not that I wanted at all... They always wanted me to play basketball, said I could go pro, for the Japanese National Team or the NBA in America, and I just hated it without Mur-“ he stops, then, and looks sad. “I just didn’t like it. I _wanted_ to be a pastry chef and make yummy snacks for everybody.”

“Well, I’d say you’re doing just that,” Himuro says warmly. He thinks back to all the conversations they’d had in high school; late-night walks to the convenience store that revealed hopes and dreams only the comfort of the nighttime can hear, and times Murasakibara would open up (rarely) while they ate lunch in the courtyard. He can’t remember anything about the boy ever telling him he wanted to a pastry chef of all things, but he guesses it makes sense. “I’m proud of you, Atsushi.”

Murasakibara smiles and Himuro thinks his heart might melt. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen him smile (or make anything other than a bored, tired scowl) and it’s nice. He doesn’t often think about high school (except in the depths of the night, when he wonders how things might have been differently if he’d been better about letting people in) but Murasakibara reminds him of something warm, something _nice_ , something he’s denied himself for years.

“Why are you here, Muro-chin?” Murasakibara asks, startling Himuro out of his thoughts. “I thought you lived in LA now, with the pretty blue water and the beaches full of beautiful people?”

“I do,” Himuro explains, laughing at the description. It’s childish, a little outdated (there’s more to LA than that, come on) but it’s _cute_. “But I’m here on vacation for a week with Taiga.”

He tries to imagine that Murasakibara’s face doesn’t fall. The fact of the matter is that it _does_ , and he’s left wondering why. “Oh,” the man says, pulling out a cloth and wiping a stray fingerprint off of the pastry case. “So you did end up with Taiga after all?”

“What?” Himuro exclaims. “Hell, no!”

“Eh?” Murasakibara grabs a truffle from a tray that a fellow worker is carrying by, popping it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

“Atsushi, I’m here on vacation with my best friend, my little brother,” Himuro says. “He’s here with his _boyfriend._ It’s fashion week for Kise. They’re dating, and he invited me to come along so he wasn’t bored during the day when Kise is getting ready for shows.”

“Ah, Kise-chin...” Murasakibara nods. “That explains why the café has been so busy...fashion week is always so tiring. So many people asking how much sugar is in my pastries, how many calories are in the bread...I don’t know, I just make it!”

“Those damn calorie-counting models, huh?” Himuro laughs.

“Atsushi, get back to work! We need more madeleines!” one of the workers huffs impatiently as she breezes by, snatching up the secondary tray of truffles that Murasakibara’s big hand had been reaching for only seconds prior.

Murasakibara groans and throws a (rather whiny) response over his shoulder in French and then turns back to Himuro. “Muro-chiiin...it was nice to see you, but I’ve gotta get back to work now. I’m the only pastry chef here today, and all...” he explains, sighing heavily. “So I guess I’ll...see you in another five or six years, maybe.”

Something about that...doesn’t sit well with Himuro. There’s something about it that sounds sad, reluctant, and it’s without really thinking that he invites him over. He tries to reason it away with wanting to catch up with an old friend, but...it’s more than that, and he knows it.

“This is my hotel, Atsushi,” Himuro says, ripping a page out of the magazine and scribbling their hotel’s name and address on it. “Come and visit, we can catch up.”

Murasakibara reaches across the counter and takes it and slides it into his apron’s pocket with another rare smile. “This café closes at 2 pm, after lunch,” he says, without any further explanation.

“Perfect,” Himuro says as he accepts his coffee from the barista. “See you then, Atsushi.”


	2. Apprehension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2/?

Himuro walks back to the hotel feeling a little shaken, nibbling idly on the pastry Murasakibara made as he goes. The outside is flaky and soft, melting on his tongue in a medley of butter and a slight sweet, nutty flavor that might be almond and he damn near _moans_ when he tastes the chocolate filling, it's that good. It's dark chocolate, he can tell, but there's none of the usual bitterness there that dark chocolate usually has. There’s another flavor worked in that might be raspberry, it might be mint - hell, for all he knows, it’s some strange exotic fruit flavor he’s never even heard of. He can’t put his finger on it and it makes it all the more enjoyable to eat. That right there is all that he needs to form his opinion that Murasakibara Atsushi is just as talented with baking as he once was with basketball. He wonders if giving the man his hotel address was a good idea, if he'll even show and for a rare moment he feels foolish, uncool, idiotic. If Murasakibara had wanted anything to come of their friendship in high school, he would have said something, or at the very least, kept in touch after Himuro graduated. As it were, he’d made no attempt to do either, just let life fly by him with his head buried in a sack of convenience store snacks as usual. One kiss on his last night in Japan had just been the effects of too much beer and not enough sense, right? There was no point in trying now. Still, though, one kiss - even if it was a sloppy, inexperienced one - means a lot from someone as...socially inept (and that was putting it nicely) as Atsushi.

He isn’t prone to this type of thinking. It’d be a little over-dramatic to call him a player (though Taiga teases him for it all the time) but he’s usually the one making people feel flustered. He’d learned long ago that a few sultry looks here, a well-timed comment there could get people falling all over themselves for him, and it’s certainly gotten him a fair share of lovers over the years. But _this_ – this is something different and it leaves him fumbling all over his hotel room, fiddling with his bottles of shampoo and lotion in the bathroom and making and re-making the lavish hotel bed because he has no clue what to do with himself. Not that Murasakibara will care about the mess, he reminds himself. If he remembers from his dorm, the big guy preferred rooms a little messy. He dresses, undresses, and changes his outfit twice because nothing _looks_ right. He tries to remind himself that Atsushi won’t care, but _he_ does. He considers putting his jeans from his walk earlier in the morning back on, but the cuffs at the bottom are sticky with dirty slush from the street and wet, besides. It’s too warm in the room for a sweater, anyway, so his outfit has to change. He re-dresses once, opting for one of the nice, button-down shirts he’d packed for Kise’s shows coupled with some nice slacks before he decides that’s way too fancy (too much like their old Yosen uniforms, he thinks) and undresses again. After a few minutes in front of the mirror he decides on his favorite black jeans that he’d brought along and a t-shirt. It’s soft and comfortable, with a faded UCLA Basketball logo and he likes it even if it’s shrunk in the wash a few too many times. When he stretches, it rides up above his hips and he can’t help but smirk a little at his reflection – if anything, he looks even better than he did in high school.

Kagami knocks on his door at around 1, just like he said he would. When Himuro opens the door, his arm is slung low around Kise’s waist and he’s laughing as he trails kisses up the man’s neck, and Kise's hand is splayed flat against Taiga's muscular stomach. It’s a little gross, but mostly cute. “Geez, get a room, baby brother," Himuro admonishes, delighting in Kagami's awkward fumble to make it look like he _wasn't_ just making out with his boyfriend in the hallway.

“Himurocchi!” Kise squeals, tearing himself out of Kagami’s arms and launching himself at Himuro to wrap him up in a hug. Kagami clears his throat and reaches out a hand as if to stop Kise and just retracts it. He must have realized that it’s absolutely pointless; nothing about Kise can be controlled or toned down. They’d played Kaijou in a practice match once in high school; maybe Taiga needs to be more like that old captain of theirs, who’d smacked Kise around when he’d gotten unruly. Taiga isn’t the type, though, not even when Kise’s grip is practically strangling him. Yep, there’s no way he’s _ever_ going to be able to adjust to how touchy Kise is with everyone, or how….exuberant he is. Bubbly would be putting it nicely, _obnoxiously peppy_ would be a little more appropriate.

“Hey, Kise,” Himuro sighs, peeling him off and forcing a smile. “Not that I’m upset, but why are you still here?”

“Oh, it was the greatest thing, Himurocchi!” Kise exclaims, smoothing down a stray strand of Himuro’s hair that he’d messed up. “They told me that if I wanted to bring you two, you could come with me for my final fitting! Just as long as you don’t bother the designers, they can get a little picky. Or say anything about their designs even if you don't like them....or, distract me roo much.

"Sounds stuffy," Himuro laughs. "I don't know, I might ruin your image..."

Kise shakes his head enthusiastically. "No way, Himurocchi!"

“Tatsuya,” Kagami says, squeezing Kise’s hip under his light sweater, sliding his arm back around him. “Did you want to come, or did you want to stay here?”

He’s not really keen on telling them about meeting back up with someone from high school, especially when he’s cultivated an image of not being terribly sentimental aside from his patched-up relationship with Kagami. He most _certainly_ doesn’t want to tell them he’s meeting someone when that person is Murasakibara Atsushi, who he knows for a fact that Kagami is _not_ fond of.

“I’ll just stay here. The two of you deserve a day to yourselves,” he tells them. He knows it’s the right answer when Kagami shoots him a grin, grateful and relieved all at once.

“Do you have a hot date, Himurocchi?” Kise teases, poking at Himuro’s exposed hips when he leans against the door frame. Himuro fails to see how faded jeans and a t-shirt make him look like he’s ready for a hot date, but hey, he _has_ heard that models are a little out of touch with the real world. Following that mentality, Kise is _really_ out of touch. “You look good even in that, I’m so jealous. I don’t look good if I’m not all dressed up, I don’t think!”

“You look good all the time, Ryou, shut up!” Kagami interjects, blushing madly when Himuro cocks an eyebrow at him. Mushy, nothing like he’d expected Taiga to be.

Kise _beams_ when Kagami compliments him like that, snuggling up to him and latching back onto his arm. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want to come, Himurocchi? It’s totally okay! Everyone will _love_ you, you’re so cool!”

He shakes his head and tugs his shirt back down, trying to cover the waistband of his jeans (a vain effort) and eventually he just leaves it be.. “No, Kise, no hot date. And no, I’ll pass. I didn’t sleep very well last night, so I’ll just stay in the rest of the night. You two have fun, you deserve it!”

 

“Oh, Taicchi, I can take you to that restaurant I like so much!” Kise squeals, tugging on Kagami’s arm like an excited child at an amusement park. Himuro ignores the fact that Kise just called his little brother a name that with different inflection would sound just like a martial arts move and sighs.

 

“Have fun, you two. You just come get me tomorrow morning when you need me, Taiga,” he says, trying to avoid another awkward interruption and making Kagami come to door of his hotel with a thin sheet and a thick boner. “I don’t really want a repeat of this morning, alright?”

 

There’s that blush again. That’s _never_ going to get old, he thinks. His little brother is so adorable.

 

Kise shamelessly rubs up under Kagami’s shirt, fingers slipping below his waistband for a split second as he kisses his neck. “Mm, Taicchi, it was a good morning, huh...”

 

“Let’s go before you’re late, Mr. Model,” Kagami says, sounding more like a stuffy, middle-aged man than a 20-something model’s boyfriend.  “Come on, leave Tatsuya be. He’ll get grumpy.”

 

Himuro shoots a scowl his way, and it’s...incredibly ineffective. Kise laughs and gives him a very French (very unnecessary, more like) kiss on each cheek before they walk over to the hotel’s elevator. Himuro watches them go and likes what he sees; Kagami’s hand might be around Kise’s waist, but there’s none of that possessive, veiled sexuality there - it’s simple affection, and it’s cute to watch the he tells Kise some (undoubtedly) stupid joke that has him nearly in amused tears by the time the elevator gets to their floor to pick them up. He’s happy that Taiga is happy, but he’d never deny that he isn’t at least a little jealous. He’s never had a serious relationship he can recall (who needs them) and it kind of bothers him that awkward, silly little Taiga who’d once been so bad at making friends is better than him at relationships, too.

Ah, well. No use being upset over what’s undoubtedly a result of his own shortcomings, he reasons, and closes the door to continue his wait for Murasakibara to arrive.

\--

Murasakibara's apartment is cold when he gets home. Its cold _everywhere,_ though; even the warm sun that had broken through the clouds late in the morning hadn’t warmed everything up. It’s not quite as cold as it had been in high school in Akita, but still, Paris is no walk in the park during the winter months _._  He _hates_ the cold, hates the Paris winter with its overcast skies and chilly snow-covered streets and all he wants to do is curl up with a blanket and some hot cocoa and snacks. He pulls a mug out of the cupboard and pulls a lighter out of his pocket to light the burner of the stove, but when he does that the little slip of paper he's kept safe in his lint-filled pocket all day flutters to the floor. _Muro-chin._

Himuro Tatsuya...was someone he wasn’t sure how to deal with. He’d broken every expectation Murasakibara had one held for himself (and he hadn’t even realized it until after they’d been shattered like fragile glass) and the feelings he’d once had (still has?) for him are something he doesn’t know how to handle, either. He had been Murasakibara's biggest source of confusion in high school and one of the only motivating factors that had kept him playing basketball as long as he had.

Himuro was one year older (technically his senpai, if he had been one to buy into that hierarchy junk) and despite being so laughably _mediocre_ he had kept at basketball until his wrists went aching limp and frustrated tears had spilled out of his deep blue eyes. Everything about him was a conundrum, from the way he had let Murasakibara act exactly as he wished but still kept him on a short leash, forcing him to practice, pacifying him with seaweed flavored snacks. The way he looked was even confusing: tall, but certainly not delicate, with a certain slenderness to him that Murasakibara had always kind of admired when they’d showered in the locker room after practice.

His own feelings had been confusing; annoyance when girls confessed to the cool older boy in the cafeteria, hot, corrosive jealousy when he'd caught Himuro making out with the boy from the soccer team in his dorm the one time. He'd never been able to realize exactly how he felt about him, and it had been exhausting. He remembers how well they worked together and he remembers being out past dormitory curfew at a gathering with some other Yosen graduates, drinking cup after cup of sake and cheap American beer and ending his stay at the party with an ill-timed kiss on Himuro's irresistible lips. He doesn't even know now, six years later, if he'd even been drunk on the liquor, or just emboldened by the way Himuro smiled at him.

He contemplates not going to Himuro’s hotel. He starts convincing himself that Himuro only extended the invitation because he felt obligated, and he doubts it’ll be anything more than that awkward, fumbling way of conversation he’s seen adults go through at his café when they haven’t seen each other in weeks, months, years, and he bets it’ll be really tiresome if he tries to go through that with Himuro.  Then, he remembers a time that a third year boy had told him that he liked the charms on his phone (a lie, said only to make fun of him) and Himuro had punched him so hard he had to go to the school nurse. Murasakibara remembers watching, confused wondering when he got to know Himuro what had prompted that reaction from a boy who always said life wasn’t fair. He remembers Himuro punching him in the face at their first game against Seirin and how it had made him feel, how Himuro’s tears at the time had seemed to be the worst possible thing he could ever see. Himuro might have been sneaky and manipulative on the court but he wasn't a bad person, and that's what makes Murasakibara ultimately decide to go.

He changes out of his chef's uniform and into some warm sweats, thick boots and a blue sweater, throwing his coat on over all of it. He snatches his scarf, hat and earmuffs from where he'd thrown them on the couch and steps out the door, coming back on an afterthought to grab the new truffles he's been perfecting the flavors for.

(He wonders if bringing chocolates is too much like the movies, with dates and flowers. He’s concerned for a second about scaring him away and thinks of about a million different reasons why he should just put those chocolates down and treat this like it is: just a way to catch up.)

What he _really_ wants is to feed them to Himuro's pretty little mouth one by one and hear him say how good they are, but that’s probably a vain hope. He sighs and mutters a curse to his empty apartment before he sets out, headed in the direction of Himuro’s hotel. It’s easy to find; it’s right on the Champs-Élysées, huge and imposing. It _looks_ nice and when he looks it over, he realizes that even on his generous salary from the famous café he works at, he’ll never stay in a hotel like this. He double checks the slip of paper, reading Himuro’s nice handwriting over again to make sure he has the right address and shrugs, striding through the fancy doors into a lobby so lavish he’s in awe of it. They eye him warily when he walks in.

“Do you need directions?” the woman behind the counter asks in English, an extremely heavy French accent weighing down the words and a distinct air that Murasakibara reads as her hoping that he _doesn’t_ need directions and she won’t have to deal with him. He frowns, he’s used to it. He’s a foreigner, doesn’t exactly look intelligent and is big and imposing, and Aka-chin had always told him that could scare people. Aka-chin had also told him that it was alright that he was so big and that he shouldn’t allow anyone to make him feel small because of it, so instead of answering her in English (which he could) he replies back in perfect French, tells her he’s here to see someone.

 “Tatsuya Himuro,” he clarifies at the end, wrinkling his nose a bit. He’s never gotten used to the reversed name order, and it just feels weird.

She sniffs haughtily, nose so high in the air she’d drown if it started raining right then. She frowns as she pulls something up on the computer, referencing it against a written list on the desk. At first she seems unable to find anything and glares up at him. “Qui?” she asks. “Repetez, s’il-vous plait.”

He already _said_ who he was there to see, he thinks angrily. She doesn’t listen very well, or maybe she just thinks he’s stupid and trying to do something wrong. Annoying. He sighs.

“Tatsuya Himuro,” Murasakibara repeats, fighting to keep his voice level. Moving to Paris has done a bit for his stress levels, but the constant sense of being mistrusted is certainly nothing like Japan. “Il est la, avec le modèle, Ryouta Kise?”

Her entire demeanor changes at that; face bright and smile wide and fake as she picks up the phone beside her to dial a number. “Oui, bien sûr,” she titters, and when the phone rings he hears her ask in a hushed whisper if he would be alright with a visitor. He guesses Himuro says yes, because she hangs up the phone and waves over a man in a laughably idiotic hat.

“Oui, oui,” she murmurs, sending Murasakibara off with a worker to usher him into the elevator. The man pushes the floor Himuro must be on and then hits the “door open” button immediately after, advising Murasakibara just to wait one moment, please. He walks over to grab some bags for a couple headed his way and when he turns his back, Murasakibara holds down the “door close” button until they vanish from view. That’s about enough of snooty French workers and snooty French hotels, he thinks, relaxing back against the fabric-covered wall of the elevator for the ride up. His heart feels a little bit like it’s going to jump right out his chest and he feels admittedly _dumb_ for it, and he clutches the truffles a little too tight in his hand before he realizes he’s crushing them.

Once he steps off the elevator and glances around, he realizes he’s on the top floor of the hotel and there are only two doors here. He’s not surprised, really, that Kise-chin went all out for both his own room and his guest’s, but still, it’s a little ostentatious.  He glances down at the slip of paper in his hand and checks the room number, taking a deep breath he shouldn’t need so badly and raising his hand to knock on the door. 


	3. Truffles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3/?

In all honesty, part of him expects Murasakibara to not show up. They haven’t spoken in six years, not since his third year of high school, and the fact that they’ve made no effort to talk to each other this whole time, while unsurprising, is upsetting. He’s not quite ready to come to terms with why exactly he _didn’t_ make an effort to keep in touch with the only person he’d’ ever really called ‘friend’ in high school; maybe it’s fear, laziness, or misplaced, jealous cruelty.

(Or maybe, a voice in the back of his head seems to hiss, you just weren’t ready to let someone in.)

Maybe there’s some truth to that. After all, he hadn’t even given Taiga his American phone number for the longest time, not after he’d left the country in such a rush after graduation. He was tired of Yosen’s attempt at alternative schooling, tired of his roommate in the dormitory who’d been utterly incapable of cleaning up after himself, tired of embarrassing reminders of his own shortcomings. He was tired of _Japan_ , ached for the brash, abrasive allure that the states had always held for him and the moment he’d gotten the UCLA acceptance letter in March of his third year, he had already booked the flight to LAX. At that point, he’d just been _done_. Life wasn’t fair, he’d always said it, but even he had breaking points, times when even his cool demeanor cracked under the strain.

Mostly, he’d been tired of not knowing what exactly Murasakibara had been to him. Even by high school, he’d been pretty sure of who he was and what he was interested in (read: other boys), a belief cemented by the fact that from the start of his schooling there, Yosen’s pretty student council president practically throwing herself at him had done less to pique his interest than the captain of the soccer team with his nice, lean muscles. Murasakibara Atsushi, however, was not someone he’d _ever_ expected to incite any sort of lust in him (or love, he considers, but that seems too strong a word for what was, if anything, just a crush) but he remembers there being quite a few times he’d surprised himself. Murasakibara is powerfully built, with impressive muscles and big, strong hands, and Himuro remembers (a little too well) how powerful the jut of his hips had looked, and that tiny line of unkempt hair that had trailed up out of the waistband of his basketball shorts. There had been a muscular elegance to the arch of his neck and the span of his shoulders that had not gone unnoticed in high school, and Himuro wishes he could write off the few times he’d gotten off thinking about the press of that heavy body against his own as desperation or lunacy.

The heavy knock (more like a pounding) on the door startles him out of his thoughts. _Atsushi_ , he thinks excitedly. He grabs hold of the doorknob to pull it back, half-expecting it to just be little more than Taiga and Kise again but is instead greeted with his hulking form.

“Muro-chin,” he says, holding out a bag of what appears to be half-crushed chocolate candies as some sort of peace offering. “I brought truffles.”

“Atsushi!” Himuro exclaims. He _tries_ to fight the urge to run up and hug him but it just doesn’t work, his arms wrapping around him and squeezing so tight Murasakibara makes a sound that a large, disgruntled dog might. “You came!”

“I said I would, right?” he sounds confused, and Himuro waves it away and steps out of his path to welcome him into the room. Murasakibara looks around, taking in the hand-painted art on the wall, the impressive gold leafing in the wallpaper and the view of the dreary mid-afternoon sky outside the window. “Nice hotel, Muro-chin,” he comments idly. “Did you pay for this?”

“Fuck no,” Himuro scoffs. “This was aaaaall Kise. My job back home might not be shitty, but it’s not _this_ good.”

“Ah,” Murasakibara reaches into the bag he’d brought along, pulling out a candy and wrinkling his nose at its mediocre appearance before popping it into his mouth. “Kise-chin is always over-the-top,” he comments. “Very obnoxious.” He doesn’t chew before he starts talking again, manners sub-par as always, and Himuro can’t help but laugh. It recalls memories of all the times he’s seen him with chip crumbs spilling out of his mouth, laughing so hard he nearly chokes on a stick of pocky and it’s more than a little endearing.

“He can be a little hard to deal with,” Himuro admits. “Try having him date your best friend.”

Murasakibara shakes his head emphatically. “I don’t want to imagine that...” he whines. “Kise-chin is nice, but so _loud_...”

“Ah, well. He makes Taiga happy,” Himuro sighs. He grabs a bottle of Perrier out of the mini-fridge and unscrews the cap, taking a generous drink and clearing his throat. “Are you dating anyone, Atsushi?”

“What a weird question...” Murasakibara says as he shakes his head, acting for a moment as if he isn’t even going to dignify it with a response. After a few moments he answers it with a ‘no’ and pulls out another truffle to eat. “Everyone thinks I’m scary. French girls say I’m too big for them, and not fashionable enough.”

It takes a _considerable_ amount of effort for Himuro to smile. “So you’ve been flirting with girls?” he asks, trying to convince himself he’s imagining the way his heart sinks. It’s only logical, right? He can’t expect _everyone_ to be gay. That kiss in high school must have just been...confusion. Yeah, that has to be it.

Muraskibara gives a noncommittal shrug.  “Not really. Maybe. I don’t know,” he admits. “French boys are bad, too, though. They don’t like me either. They think I’m weird..this city is what’s weird. People are always stealing from each other and everyone is always so mean...I don’t think I flirted with anyone on purpose.”

_Boys, too_? He imagines that if he were to comment on that, Murasakibara would just ignore it, return to the kind of close-mouthed, stubborn refusal to talk about his emotions about anything (like in high school, when the topic of why the Generation of Miracles were no longer friends came up in conversation) and that’s the last thing that Himuro wants him to do. What started as a casual invitation to catch up has turned into something he feels like he needs. He _has_ to find out what Atsushi has been doing all these years and he’s pretty sure he won’t be happy until he does, certain he’d feel empty if Murasakibara were to leave without talking to him.

(He ignores the voice in the back of his head that asks him how he’ll feel when he has to go back to L.A and leave his friend in a city that clearly makes him unhappy. How will he feel, then, now that _something_ has changed?)

It’s the same kind of ache he felt seeing Taiga after so long, and the same relief when he’d been able to apologize and everything was right again.

“You sound like you hate it here, Atsushi,” Himuro says softly before taking another small sip of the Perrier. “Why Paris, if you don’t like it? It’s certainly a far cry from Japan.”

“Paris was a good place to go,” he says quietly. “Japan was just...full of too many memories, I guess. Not enough good stories, maybe.”

There’s a hint of sadness there that Himuro finds more than a little disturbing. Like an iceberg sleeps below the surface of the blue-black cold ocean, there’s something there that Atsushi isn’t revealing and he wants to know it, more than he’s craved anything in a _long_ time. He wants to decode the mystery of Atsushi's mind, to drink in whatever lies under that apathy. He wants to know him now, when he's not too selfish to try.

“Tell me your story, Atsushi,” Himuro urges him. “Good or bad. I want to hear it. Why Paris? Don’t get all closed-mouthed on me, now.”

“Muro- _chiiiin_ ,” he whines, shooting a glare at him. “It’s a loooong stooooryyy…stop asking me to tell you things, they’re boring.” He leans back against the wall next to the door, letting the bag of truffles fall onto the top of the room’s tiny table in the corner.

“We haven’t seen each other in six years,” Himuro reminds him as he sits down on the neatly-made bed, stretching his arms out behind him and relaxing back on them. “Is this any way to treat an old friend? You showed up here, in the last place I expected you to, and I think I at least deserve an explanation. ”

Murasakibara sighs heavily and shoots him another acidic glare, but he relents. “I started at university, like I told you this morning,” he begins, sitting down at the little table. He makes it look like a table in a dollhouse seating a giant, and Himuro knows he probably feels uncomfortable so he pats the bed next to him, beckoning him over. Murasakibara's face breaks out in a wide, rare smile and he stands back up to walk over. He flops back onto the comfortable, pillow-top mattress with a sigh, landing like a felled giant, disrupting the arrangement of the pillows and rustling the blanket and sheets so they look slept in all over again. Himuro laughs as the big guy makes himself comfortable, and when h seems to have found a suitable position he flops back onto the bed next to him, both of them staring up at the ceiling. To say that he’s snuggling up next to him wouldn’t be _quite_ accurate, but he won’t deny the fact that he’d like to. He feels something like a furnace, radiating warmth and it feels _good_ next to him.

"I got into a bunch of schools, you know,” he brags. “But I just went to Tokyo University. I was there for about three semesters, and I had really good grades, but...”

He gets bored and yawns, looking over at Himuro with a distinctly displeased expression. “I wasn’t happy. I was sick of basketball, and they kept bothering me to play. Like, every day. There was just...nothing fun about it after you left.”

Himuro is shocked to hear that, in all honesty. He'd known that the boy's stubborn insistences that he hated basketball had  no merit to them, not when he'd seen the way he played when he was up against someone really _good_ , when someone baited the beast. But to have it revealed to him now that his presence had actually done something to make it better is...touching, to say the least.

"I didn't want to play basketball. I didn't _want_ to be a Miracle any longer," he laments, rolling over just slightly so he's turned towards Himuro. "I just wanted to do something I was good at that I _liked_. Something that didn't hurt when I thought about it."

"Atsushi..." Himuro reaches out and rubs Murasakibara's arm, letting his fingers run up and down his forearm, travel up to squeeze his shoulder. He doesn't even think about it, it just comes naturally and for once he doesn't try to keep up appearances and comforts him. "Is that why you started culinary school, then? How?"

Himuro is asking a lot of questions; questions that Murasakibara doesn't really want to think about. They’re not important, they’re in the past, and he doesn’t know why Himuro needs to know. A small part of him is angry about it (why now, why after _six years)_ and a small part of him just wants to curl up in a ball like he did when he was a kid and eat some chocolate. It’s still painful to think about everything; how Aka-chin had been his friend (nice and generous even though he was a little obnoxious about chiding him to eat better foods) and then he had been...someone else, how they’d all grown apart and ended up playing against one another in high school, how nothing stays the _same_.

“I actually called Aka-chin,” he admits quietly. He remembers agonizing over it, wondering if he should even bother him, wondering if the boy would even _care_ (or as Mido-chin might say it, _which_ Aka-chin he would get to talk to if he called). Akashi had graduated high school into a world of responsibility and familial expectations and it had taken a week of deliberating before Murasakibara had mustered the courage to call him.  “Culinary classes are expensive, and I wanted his advice. And I, uh...needed a little help with the tuition."

Himuro remembers "Aka-chin". Rakuzan's tiny point-guard and captain, austere and perfect at all times. Grudgingly, there are memories of getting knocked flat onto his ass in the games they played against Rakuzan, getting told to ‘know his place’ and he shudders to think of Atsushi owing that little terror _anything._ Even more than that, he remembers how unwilling Atsushi had been to talk about what had happened in junior high, why the Miracles had all gone to separate schools; the explanation behind his stubborn _refusal_ to get off the bench and play in the Rakuzan – Yosen matches.

“I quit university,” Murasakibara continues. “Aka-chin yelled at me when I called him, but when I told him what I wanted to do he invited me over to his house and told me to cook a bunch of stuff.  He said that he wanted to test me."

Himuro lets his hand relax to where its sitting on the bed just next to Murasakibara's, watching the play of emotions across his face as he talks. Not much, not noticeable, but they're definitely there. "That sounds like the Akashi you spoke to me about."

“I don't even remember what I made for him. Duck, maybe?" Murasakibara contemplates for a moment. "A full course meal, for sure; and lots of deserts. That's my specialty, you know. Deserts."

"If that pastry you made this morning is any indication, I can agree with that," Himuro says, turning so he's on his side too. "That was the most delicious thing I've ever had. The filling was really creamy and the crust had just the right amount of flaky layers to it."

Murasakibara's face lights up and something in Himuro's heart _melts_. He's never seen Atsushi look so genuinely elated, not even when he bought him the value packs of the rare, limited edition flavors of Umaibo, or the boxes filled with Neru Neru Nerune. It’s...really cute.

"Muro-chin liked it?" he asks excitedly, grabbing Himuro's hands in his and watching his face. "It had almond butter brushed into the crust, and a tiny bit of blackberry folded into the chocolate!"

"Dammit," Himuro sighs. "I guessed raspberry."

"No, no, silly Muro-chin," he laughs, reaching to pat the top of Himuro’s head. Normally it would be patronizing, but right now it’s just really cute."It's really good that you liked it! I can use you as a taste tester, then, since you gave such a good opinion. You'll love these truffles I brought. I've been working on them at home. One has a little bit of mango and a tiny hint of red chiles."

_Red chiles in chocolate?_ That's probably the last thing he wants to try, but if Murasakibara made them, they're probably divine. Himuro smiles and nods his head. “Of course I’ll try then.”

" I also brought some that I made with green tea and jasmine, with a tiny hint of mint in the center..." he says, looking over at the truffles on the table. He looks a little displeased that they’re so far away, but even more than that he looks unwilling to go and get them. "Maybe you'd like those better?"

Himuro nods as he pushes himself off the bed and goes over to grab the bag, and Murasakibara watches him intently. Himuro looks just like he did in high school, with the same pretty eyes and soft-looking lips. If anything about him has changed, it’s that he's lost a bit of his muscle-he looks thinner, and when he moves, his t-shirt rides up and his hips look like something Murasakibara would like to have his hands on. It’s just like in high school, when he thought a little more about what Himuro would feel like pressed against him than he probably should have.

"So, what happened with Aka-chin?" Himuro asks as he drops the bag of truffles on the big bed between them and lies back down.

"Sneaky, Muro-chin..."  Murasakibara says as he reaches into the bag and pulls out a gorgeous, exquisitely decorated little candy. It's white chocolate, with a light green fondant leaf on top and he cradles it in his big palm like a prize. "Here, try this, and I'll tell you," he says, holding the truffle between two fingertips and placing it on Himuro's tongue when his mouth opens. His lips are soft and warm, and his tongue leaves a wet little swipe across his fingertips when he folds the truffle into his mouth and that makes Murasakibara’s breath catch in his throat for a second.

Himuro realizes he should probably tone it down a little - letting his teeth nip across the pad of Murasakibara’s thumb was a bit much, but from the way Murasakibara’s eyes widen, it wasn’t anything unwanted. It was nice, though, just a little flirtation, after all, and _fuck_ , that candy is good _._ He can taste the mint when his teeth sink in, when the chocolate and its filling floods over his tongue, but the flavor is subtle enough to not overpower his senses. Murasakibara's fingers catch a tiny bit of fondant that falls off when he bites down, wiping it off the corner of his mouth and brushing his finger across his lip and Himuro flicks his tongue out to catch it. _Screw subtlety._ "This is delicious, holy shit."

"Told you," he teases, unable to drag his eyes away from Himuro’s lips, his tongue, and the soft little pleased sounds he’s making as he tastes the candy. It’s almost...mesmerizing. Better than any of those stupid things girls do when they’re trying to get his attention, licking their lips until they’re chapped. With Muro-chin it seems...effortless.  "Anyway. Aka-chin gave me the money to enroll at Le Cordon Bleu’s Tokyo campus.”

Himuro takes the other half of the truffle from between Murasakibara’s fingertips and chews on the bite he has thoughtfully. “I had no idea there was even a culinary school in Tokyo,” Himuro says, trying to remember if he'd ever passed a building that looked like anywhere chefs would study.

“Oh it’s gorgeous, Muro-chin!” he says excitedly. “Anyways, it took me a year there, for the Diplôme de Cuisine, and then they said I had such potential that they wanted me at the Paris campus. It was a really big move, but I went ahead and did it. ”

“They wanted you for the best of the best,” Himuro reasons. “I’m not surprised. You always were maddeningly good at everything you tried.”

Murasakibara grins rather smugly and pulls out another truffle, one of the dark chocolate ones with a tiny red fondant swirl on the top. “It took me another year for the second part, the Diplôme de Pâtisserie," he goes on to say, nuzzling down into the pillow to get comfortable as he nibbles at it.

"So, are you still working on it...? Do you get a degree, or something else?" Himuro feels a little stupid and he can’t say that he likes it too much; leave it to Atsushi to choose to do the one thing he doesn't know much about.

“Sort of. You get a diploma and certifications," Murasakibara tells him. "I'm pretty much done. That cafe is just a little place to work to earn some extra money while I work on some more advanced classes."

Himuro reaches over and steals one of the dark chocolate and chile truffles from the bag. He pops it into his mouth and closes his eyes, letting that new flavor wash over his tongue. It’s something different, the bittersweet dark chocolate melding with a tiny little kick that bites his tongue. The mango taste comes after and it’s _delicious_. “These are really delicious, you know,” he says after he swallows the candy.  “No wonder you got that certification, huh?

“It’s called a Grand Diplôme, altogether, by the way,” Murasakibara proudly explains. The French words sound odd against the Japanese and Himuro laughs, making Murasakibara's proud grin turn into more of a petulant pout. “And I got it...” he mumbles.

Himuro scoots a little closer and rests his head on Murasakibara's outstretched arm. It's enough that if he needed to, he can write it off as a mistake, but he likes the closeness of him, the warmth. Murasakibara picks up another one of the white-chocolate and jasmine truffles and holds it to his mouth, prodding at his lips. Himuro glances up at him and draws it into his mouth, running his tongue around the decorative leaf on the top and smirking around the candy. “Congratulations...consider me impressed.”

"Thank you,” Murasakibara says proudly.

If there’s one thing that Himuro’s learned, it’s that second chances tend to be kind to him; so when he has a chance, he takes it, scooting up and placing his hands on either side of Murasakibara’s head, leaning down to kiss him. His lips are chapped and thin when he kisses him, and the soft exhale of a moan is nice against Himuro’s lips. His mouth tastes like a medley of different things; strong coffee, sweet chocolate, metallic cold winter air and Himuro is pretty sure he’s doing something right when Murasakibara’s hand comes up to brush gingerly through his hair and he deepens the kiss just a bit. There’s a sense of inexperience, but no hesitation, and he hasn’t kissed anyone in a long time that’s made him feel as good as Murasakibara is making him feel right now.

“I don’t normally say these sorts of cliché things,” Himuro whispers when he pulls back, licking at Murasakibara’s lower lip and nipping at his jaw, laughing softly to himself. “But I’ve thought about doing that every once in a while for the past six years.”


	4. Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses taste even better when their lips taste like delicious candies.

Murasakibara flushes red when Himuro pulls back and swipes at his lips with the back of his hand. “For not liking cliché things, Muro-chin is good at saying them,” he pouts, brows furrowing as he angrily scoops up another truffle from the bag on the bedspread and popping it into his mouth. “You like fucking with me. I’ll still crush you.”

Now _that’s_ a familiar string of words. Himuro welcomes it, letting one of the hands cupping Murasakibara’s cheek run through his hair, more or less the same length he remembers it as. Soft, ramrod-straight, falling across his fingers like a sweet-smelling waterfall (he’d bet money on the fact that Murasakibara uses strawberry-scented shampoo, how cute), he twines a strand around his finger and smiles, kissing the tip of Murasakibara’s nose when it crinkles irritably.

“You can’t crush me,” he reasons with a smile. “Then who will taste-test your truffles?”

“Lots of people,” Murasakibara pouts, attempting to cross his arms and ending up bumping into Himuro, his arm slinging low around his waist and pulling him closer in one (albeit clumsy) fell swoop.  “You’re not the only one who thinks my candies are tasty, you know. Muro-chin is self-centered as always.”

Himuro supposes he deserves that. After all, it had been he who was too (scared? stubborn? stupid?) _something_ to let anything come of what he knew had been there in high school; the way Murasakibara looked at him, the way he willingly shared his snacks, the silly, stupid-cute things he’d said that Himuro had dismissed. He guesses now that it had been pretty selfish, but selfishness had been his strong suit in high school.

“Well, what if I don’t want to be crushed, because then it would mean I never got to taste another delicious, hand-crafted Atsushi creation again?” Himuro reasons, nuzzling against Murasakibara’s shoulder as he talks. His huge form stiffens, then relaxes, molding the lay of his arm around Himuro, his hand resting low on his hip. He lets out a contented sound as he yawns and relaxes back against the headboard, and Himuro steals the opportunity to rest his hand on top of Atsushi’s, fingertips running along the top of his hand. “What if I feel like I haven’t lived until I’ve tried every candy and pastry you dream up?”

He twists a bit, hazarding a glance up at Murasakibara, who’s staring with an alarming intensity at the bag of truffles. There are only three left, two dark chocolate chiles and one green tea, and he’s scowling at them like he wishes he could crush _them_ instead, like he’s blaming them for the blush that’s creeping across his cheeks. With anyone else, Himuro would wonder that he’d said the wrong thing but if he remembers anything about Murasakibara Atsushi (and the more time he spends with him, the more things he’d ignored back then seem so apparent now) it’s probably a good thing. His big hand tightens on Himuro’s hip, falling lower for a greedy squeeze of his thigh and Himuro smirks, dipping his head and hiding the expression from view.

“Atsushi,” he murmurs as he picks at a fabric pill on Murasakibara’s sweats, turning back up towards him after a moment or two, parting his lips just slightly and licking his lower lip. “Feed me another?”  

Murasakibara’s hands move quickly, grabbing the last green tea truffle and inspecting its fondant leaf for imperfections before turning back towards Himuro. Muro-chin has to know how he looks, Murasakibara thinks. Sitting almost in his lap with a hand on his thigh, pretty lips parted; he’s pretty and if perfect were a word he threw around easily, he’d probably use it for him. He’d noticed before that he’s as pretty as ever, that morning in the coffee shop when he'd looked cold and kind of cute bundled up in a fluffy scarf (probably even prettier than he was back then, because now when he smiles it seems genuine, not gloating or smug) and just when he’s about to place the truffle clutched between his fingertips onto Himuro’s tongue, he changes his mind and bites into it himself. It’s worth it for the way Himuro's eyes widen, the way his mouth closes and then opens again, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. He reaches for the truffle and Murasakibara holds it out of his reach, in the hand that isn’t clutched around Himuro’s waist high above his head.

“That wasn’t very nice, you know,” Himuro scolds, lunging up to try and reach it and crawling over Murasakibara in the process. Murasakibara frowns; it’s like Muro-chin has forgotten how it used to be. If Murasakibara has a snack, it’s his, and even if he had said he would share it, it’s still his if he changes his mind. “I wanted that!”

It’s a scuffle, Himuro reaching for the truffle and Murasakibara holding it stubbornly out of reach; lots of elbowing and he tries to tickle Himuro in an attempt to stop him and receives a punch in the arm. When they’re done, they’re both breathing heavy and Muro-chin is straddling his waist, holding the now half-melted truffle between his fingertips and smirking, a look on his face of distinct triumph and definite mockery.

“No fair, Muro-chiiin-“ Murasakibara whines, and Himuro silences him with the press of his index finger against his lips, smiling as he brings the truffle to his mouth and winking before taking a small bite.

Himuro lets the chocolate rest on his tongue for a few moments, humming quietly, appreciatively before handing it back to Murasakibara. “That’s one of the best candies I’ve ever had, truly,” he admits. “But maybe it’s just better because it was yours. Or at least, you took a bite first.”

_He had taken a bite first_ , he realizes, _then Muro-chin. It was an indirect kiss_. He guesses he’s stupid for being proud of that, for wanting to celebrate even though Muro-chin had kissed him full on the lips just a few moments before. This was something different, something deeper, the success of something he’d tried to do so many times in high school. Not that he’d admit that, though; it’s a secret (in all honesty, a secret that sneaky Muro-chin with his flirting probably knows) that he’d always been taking bites of maibou first before sharing, just to say his lips had touched what Himuro’s had. Stupid, dumb, really obnoxious, he thinks; he’d never wanted to be the kind of person who was so wrapped up in someone else (he didn’t need anyone else, not ever) especially not some annoying boy who worked annoyingly hard and made him exhausted. That was before Himuro Tatsuya, that was before things had changed.

He finally speaks after a few long minutes, and after he bites what’s left of the truffle out from between Himuro’s fingertips. “Indirect kiss...” he mumbles as Himuro’s hands move up his abdomen, rubbing across his chest through the sweater (he wonders if Muro-chin can recognize that he’s still in shape; even if it’s exhausting he’s tried to stay fit - a labor of love in and of itself with all tje tasty pastries he makes on a daily basis) and he guesses he can, because that smirk he’s been wearing quirks up a little at the corner and his eyes lid just a bit.

He leans in close, until Murasakibara can feel the warmth of his breath on his lips. “I already gave you a real one, and you’re excited about an indirect kiss?” he teases, flicking his tongue out to lick at Murasakibara’s bottom lip. He tastes good, like the candies he’d fed him and something familiar, something that throws him back to six years ago, something he had only once and had thought about more than he should have. It was a taste that had lingered in the sprinkles from his nerunerunerune that had stuck to his lips, been in the ramune flavored gummies - Muro-chin had liked those, always, so they'd always made him think of him after he graduated and moved on. Something that, as frustrating as it is to realize, he'd wanted more than he'd ever thought possible. Muro-chin is one of the only things he'd ever contemplated working for.

“Shut up, Muro-chin,” he says petulantly, sliding his hands to Himuro’s hips – that’s where it’s convenient, where his big, awkward hands seem to rest comfortably; low on his hips, just above the curve of his ass (and what a nice ass it is, that much he’d noticed in high school – he contemplates telling him he’s thought about his nice squishy ass a lot since then) and Himuro moans softly, lets his eyes slide closed as Murasakibara’s fingers run up just under the hem of his shirt. It’s almost unintentional, but once his fingers slip he doesn’t stop it – Himuro’s skin is warm to the touch, firm muscle under soft skin and he feels good. Murasakibara never thought he'd notice tiny things like the frayed waistband of Himuro's jeans, the indentations in his skin from where fabric has pressed against it, temporary scars. These are new, but somehow not - he feels like he's dreamed about them before,

(somewhere, amongst all the dreams he's had about Himuro Tatsuya: annoying ones where he scolded him when he was team captain his third year, Murasakibara's second; dirty ones, where he imagined what Muro-chin would sound like with his name on his lips, falling in a whisper)

like nothing about Muro-chin is new. It's stupid, it sounds like the kind of dumb fate stuff Mido-chin would talk about, but he guesses it's not so bad.

“Maybe your real kisses aren’t as memorable as the indirect ones,” Murasakibara challenges, hoping a bait like that is still the type of thing that sets Muro-chin off. He likes to prove himself, Murasakibara knows, likes the attention that comes with it. He guesses this is what counts as flirting but he doesn’t care, wants more kisses from Muro-chin and is pretty sure this is the way to get them, this subtle back and forth that in all honesty, he doesn't have time for. There's no telling how much time he has with him.

Himuro covers Murasakibara’s lips with his own in an instant, kisses him deep and hard and he puts a lot of emotion into that kiss, a lot of things he’ll never say (maybe there are a few apologies in there, regrets at not taking advantage of what they could have had sooner, explanations as to why he'd been closed-off and hesitant and less than confident) and he guesses Murasakibara understands them because his hands tighten on his waist, warm and surprisingly gentle as he pulls him closer.  Himuro's not the best with words, sometimes (getting too wordy isn’t good for keeping your head clear, he guesses it’s his nature) but he’s one hell of a guy when it comes to actions.

(He and Atsushi have always relied more on actions - a killer right hook and tears dripping onto Murasakibara's sweat-soaked face and collar bone; gentle touches here and there to calm him down, a tug on his sleeve that told the younger boy he had a snack for him, the way that after a while, Himuro had learned what every tiny tic in Murasakibara's body language meant without even trying.)

He hopes when he throws his arms around Murasakibara’s shoulders and deepens the kiss even more that it tells him all he needs to know: that he’s here, that he wants him, that he’s always wanted him. He guesses some part of Murasakibara understands it, too, for the way his hands tighten around his waist again and the way the tension seems to leave his body.

Murasakibara hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath until his relieved exhale turns into a soft sigh against Himuro's lips. He's nice to kiss; his mouth is soft and warm and sweet from candy and his tongue is insistent when it prods against his lips, slips between them and (he's never kissed anyone like this, not even the few girls who had gone on dates with him, who had kissed him goodnight with lipstick-caked lips and perfume-y smells not nearly half as good as Himuro's clean scent) he likes that, likes the way Himuro's fingers thread through his hair to keep their lips locked until he feels lightheaded.

Himuro pulls back and brushes his hair off of his face, grinning as he asks "So, is that still not as good as an indirect one?"

Murasakibara thinks for a long, hard moment, like he’s caught between answering the most important question of his life. Himuro punches him playfully, offended that he even has to think about it, scolding “Atsushi, come on!!”

He blushes and tries to hide it, turning away and shrugging. “Tastes better than last time,” is the only response he gives as he swings his long legs off the edge of the bed like he might get up. It takes Himuro a second to remember that yeah, it probably does – there had been beer on his breath the last time and this time, its chocolate.

(All the better, Himuro thinks, if it makes Murasakibara want to kiss him again. There’s something special about Atsushi, he knows – but then again, there always has been – Atsushi never annoyed him like all of the others, with their natural talent and their arrogance.)

_Of course it’s better_ , Murasakibara wants to tell him. _Stupid Muro-chin_. He’s not very good at this whole flirting thing, not like Himuro always had been – he’d had girls three grades below them falling all over themselves without even trying and even despite their conservative surroundings there’d been more than a few boys he’d seen him flirt with, cast glances that lasted longer than a second or two, touches that he knew weren’t purely friendly.

“And why is that?” Himuro laughs, another one of those rare, genuine and pretty smiles splitting across his face as he pokes Murasakibara’s belly and for anyone else, that would piss him off but with Muro-chin he’s just glad to feel the touch of his hand. He inhales like he’ll say something else, and Murasakibara  steals a glance to the side to see where he is (turned towards him on the bed, one leg hanging off of the edge, the other behind Murasakibara’s back). He sees his chance and he seizes it, lunging forward until he’s pressed down flat on the bed, eyes wide as he looks up at him and Murasakibara savors that, those few, short moments that he has the jump on him instead of the other way around. Himuro has always been (frustratingly) cool-headed, on top of his game and it’s rare to see him surprised by anything. He loves it, loves the way he sucks in a sharp, breathy gasp, the way his soft lips part like he’s going to say something, like he wants kissed again.

 That’s something Murasakibara can do, he thinks, as he dips his head to connect their lips again, his long hair falling over their faces and he thinks he feels Himuro’s lips curve into a smile against his own. He lets out a soft murmur of his name and wraps his arms around Murasakibara’s shoulders, fingers twirling strands of purple hair around his fingertips as he wraps his legs around Murasakibara’s waist and pulls him down harder, flush against him.

He’s a little late to answer, but he doubts Muro-chin will mind. “You taste better because now you taste like my candies,” he admits as he kisses the tip of Himuro’s nose, the corner of his mouth, the line of his jaw. “You’re even better to kiss now.”

“Then don’t stop,” Himuro tells him before he crushes their lips together again. _Ever_ , he almost adds, but he’s not sure if now’s the right time – maybe he’ll just let things play out, for now.


	5. What Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So now that they've found each other again, what now? Where do they go from here?
> 
> \--
> 
> Just as a side note: thank you to everyone who's liked this fic. Bookmarked it, left comments, left kudos, talked to me about it on tumblr. You guys are the reason I wrote the extra two chapters. <3

There’s a knock on the door several hours later; when he looks out the window he can see the Parisian skyline lit up, tiny sprinklings of light against a dark sky and a glance at his cell phone screen tells him it’s nearly 2 a.m. _Great_. It’s damn near impossible to wriggle out from under Murasakibara’s arm where it’s draped heavy across his waist (and in fact, he has absolutely no desire to do so) but he manages, getting halfway to do the door before he realizes he’s still very naked. He kicks at the discarded pile of clothes and has no luck in his hunt for his underwear, and Taiga’s heavy hand lands impatiently on the door another three or four more times in the time it’s taken him to look around. Murasakibara snores a little and rolls over in his sleep, clutching one of the fluffy pillows to his chest and murmuring something inaudible.

“Hold on, Taiga, I’m coming, dammit!” he says irritably, the sound coming out as low hiss as he tries to keep his voice low, to not wake Atsushi (though if he remembers anything from their nights spent in hotels during away basketball tournaments, he’s a heavy sleeper) and eventually, he gives up on his search for his discarded underwear (but on second thought, he _probably_ doesn’t want to put those back on anyway).  Flipping open his suitcase irritably, he rifles around until he finds a pair of shorts he can tug on and go to the door and when he opens it, Taiga is talking to Kise, saying something about how he doesn’t understand, how the hell can an after-party have an after-party?

"Taiga," he states, leaning against the door frame and drumming his fingers against it, looking Kagami over for a few moments – Kise must have talked him into that outfit, he had to have – those pants are tighter than Taiga would have worn willingly and that shirt is way too fancy.

"Uh...Tatsuya?” Kagami asks, the smile on his face wide as Kise slides a possessive arm around his waist falling just a bit when Himuro isn’t dressed yet. “Aren’t you going to come out to the party?"

_It’s 2 a.m.,_ Himuro wants to reason, and then he has to stop and laugh at himself for a little bit: there were times in college in LA that he stayed out until 4 a.m. “I really can’t…” he starts, smirking a little at Kagami’s awkward-as-hell, half-appalled, half-apologetic face when his eyes scan down his body and take in his state of undress. “I have company.”

Kise’s eyes light up and he pushes on the door so he can see inside before Himuro can stop him, inviting himself in despite Kagami's failed attempts at grabbing him to hold him back. Himuro tries to grab him too, but he slips past him squealing “Who's the lucky guy, Himurocchi?"

Himuro twists around to try and (what? what is there to do when there’s a 7 foot tall naked man in your bed?) less the impact of the situation, says “It’s no one important, really-“

( _a lie_ , one that he knows Taiga is probably going to see right through if he knows him at all)

"Is that –“ Kise gasps when he gets farther than the doorway, dancing past Himuro and Kagami’s grasping fingertips, warm eyes wide as saucers when he sees who’s in Himuro’s hotel bed amongst messy sheets. It paints a pretty obvious picture; the way the sheets are draped over Murasakibara’s waist (so low you can tell he’s not wearing anything), his own state of undress, his messy hair, the rumpled sheets and a pillow tossed onto the floor. Kise’s voice lowers to a hissed whisper as rotates on the spot to face Himuro, a hand gripping his shoulder hard. “Is that _Murasakicchi?”_

Himuro sighs and glares back at Kagami as if to say _your boyfriend needs to learn some tact._ Maybe to mind his own business, too, come to think of it. Kagami would respond with a shrug to his pointed glare, he’s pretty sure, if he weren’t so busy staring aghast at the man-sized lump in Himuro’s bed. Sure, it’s a far cry from the cute, fashionable little thing Himuro had brought home and fooled around with the second night they were there (cute, but vapid and shallow, totally not Himuro’s type), but that doesn’t mean it requires Taiga’s _staring_.

“Why don’t you take a picture, Taiga?” Himuro sighs, returning to his spot in the doorway and hoping they’ll take the hint. (He _might_ tap his foot impatiently for a little bit, but that’s up to debate.) “It’ll last longer.”

Kagami jerks back to look at him, eyes wide as he sputters and tries to find something to say in response. “Uh-“

Himuro has a hand on Kise’s shoulder, gentle but firm, guiding him back towards the door to get him _out_ with some sort of haste. He’s in no mood to talk about why Murasakibara Atsushi is in his bed, least of all with Taiga’s prying boyfriend when all he wants to do is crawl back into bed next to Atsushi’s big, warm body.

“We have to talk about this, Himurocchi!” Kise insists, already typing frantically on the keypad of his phone, only half-focused on the conversation. Himuro spares him a “yeah, yeah” and returns Taiga’s wave goodbye when he gives one, but as soon as they’re over the doorway he’s shutting the door in their face and stripping his shorts back off and tossing them in the direction of his open suitcase. Maybe. He’s not sure, in the low light.

Murasakibara blinks blearily when Himuro crawls back into bed with him, his voice a groggy whisper as he mumbles “Muro-chin?” He looks as confused by the pillow in his arms as Himuro does and he tosses it away with a disdainful little scowl, pulling Himuro back into his arms.

\--

“We’ve gotta tell Kuroko!” Kagami hisses when they get in the hotel’s elevator. “He’s never gonna believe it!”

“Kurokocchi always thought _you_ and Himurocchi would end up together, you know,” Kise says sagely as he pulls Kagami’s iPhone out of his pocket, scrolling through a list of contacts that is decidedly shorter than his own and hitting the button over Kuroko’s name. “Here, I’ll call!” Kagami damn near drops the phone when Kise shoves it into his hands and the model’s teasing little snicker earns a glare from him in response.

“No way,” Kagami says with a scowl. “Maybe I had a crush on him when I was a kid but Tatsuya...he’s like my best friend.”

Kise pouts, cocking his head to the side. “Did you see this coming, Taicchi?”

Kagami nods, listening to check that the phone is still ringing before he responds “Yeah, honestly. I always kind of thought he had a thing for him...you should have heard the way he talked about him in high school, like he was the cutest thing ever.”

Kise doesn’t have a chance to respond before the call gets answered, and the voice that speaks sounds a little irritable. Well, as irritable as it can, at least. “Kagami Taiga?” Kuroko says calmly. “There had better be a good reason for you calling.”

“Shit,” Kagami winces. _Time zones_. “Sorry.”

“I don’t know where you are, but in Miami, Florida it’s 9 p.m.,” he explains. “Not really a polite time to be calling.”

There’s a ruffling of fabric and the sounds of the phone changing hands, a few soft murmurs and what sounds distinctly like “ _Not right now_ ,” until it’s Aomine’s low voice on the other end saying “Yeah, Tiger,” in an impatient growl. “Some people are busy.”

“Aomine, goddammit, give the phone back to Kuroko,” Kagami sighs, and then Kise gasps, swiftly stealing the phone from him.

“MINECCHI!” Kise squeals, the sound reverberating in the tiny little elevator. “Himurocchi and Murasakicchi slept together!!”

Aomine doesn’t respond for a few moments, so Kise repeats himself – “Hey, Minecchi, did you hear me? They had sex! Murasakicchi is in his bed at the hotel right now! _Naked_!”

Aomine laughs lowly, points out “Yeah, I know what sleeping together entails, Kise.” There’s a brief pause and a quiet mutter and Kagami and Kise can only assume he’s telling Kuroko, and when Aomine comes back on the phone, all he has to say is “About time”.

Some more rustling that can only be Kuroko reclaiming the phone, and he says softly (no less blunt) “Kagami-kun, it’s nice to see that Himuro-kun has learned that he does in fact feel emotions.”

Kise spins away with a plaintive whine of “I’m the only one who didn’t see this coming!” and Kagami watches him in confusion for a minute, seeing him pull his own phone out of his pocket to undoubtedly tweet some cryptic message about it.

“Sorry to bug you, Kuroko,” Kagami apologizes, and even though Kuroko assures him it’s alright he can hear the way his voice quivers and a soft sucking noise that’s undoubtedly Aomine’s lips on his neck. “Uh, I just, uh – wanted to let you know.”

“Bye, Tiger,” Aomine purrs before the sound cuts off and a beep on Kagami’s phone alerts him that the call has been ended.

Kagami slams the phone back into his pocket with a huff, turning towards Kise, who looks deep in thought.

“Do you think Himurocchi will stay here in Paris with him?” he muses, tapping his finger on his chin and glancing at Kagami to see what he thinks.

“Tatsuya will do what he wants,” Kagami shrugs as they step out of the elevator. “To tell you the truth I just kind of hope he’s happy for once.”

\--

Himuro orders room service the next morning; strong, black coffee and a plate of fresh fruit for himself and some pastries for Murasakibara. Unsurprisingly, he’s awake before him, stuck flipping through a newspaper he understands almost none of until the large body next to him stirs.

Himuro wakes him up with a kiss and a croissant, warm and buttery with a light dusting of powdered sugar. “Atsushiii,” he whispers, kissing the tip of his nose as he crinkles it, covers his eyes against the sun streaming through the window. “Wake uuup...”

Murasakibara takes a bite of the bread first, kisses Himuro second, and then grins as he chews slowly, thoughtfully. He could have made it better, but it’ll do. Muro-chin looks really pretty like this, with the morning sun making his eyes bright blue and his smile bright, wide (kind of stupid, honestly) more genuine than any smile he’d ever seen on his face while they’d been at school together. He’s not sure if he was in love in high school, not sure if that fluttery feeling in his chest when Muro-chin had touched him, praised him, bought him his favorite snacks was love but he’s _pretty_ sure he’s in love now. His entire body still feels exhausted from what they’d done last night, but his heart still feels like it’s somewhere up in the clouds.

“Morning, Muro-chin,” he whispers, curling his arms around him, though it’s a little difficult since he’s sitting cross-legged atop the bed as he drinks his coffee. He’s still naked, and Murasakibara’s hands stray a little bit down between his legs, stroke up his thighs (still a little sticky, he notices) and when a little shiver rakes down his spine and he looks down like he might scold him, Murasakibara just smiles.

“Stop it, or I won’t want to leave the bed all day,” he laughs, and Murasakibara doesn’t understand what would be so bad about that. “I thought you could take me sightseeing!”

Murasakibara perks up at that. He remembers the first thing he and Himuro had done besides basketball was sightseeing; he’d shown him his favorite arcade from middle school and though he’d wanted to show him the Rainbow Bridge and the Tokyo Needle, the rain had ruined it. Still, he’d always wanted to take Muro-chin sightseeing again.

“I _guess_ I could do that,” he grudgingly replies.

Himuro sets the paper and his coffee cup on the bedside table and lies back down next to him. “Do you not want to do that?” he teases, poking at Murasakibara’s stomach. “Are you just as lazy as ever, Atsushi?”

He keeps his arms around but he recoils from the touch, and Himuro’s smile falters and Murasakibara feels bad for a second, but there are things he needs to know. He’s not the most well-versed with stupid relationship stuff like this, but there are things he needs to know.

“What do we do now, Muro-chin?” Murasakibara asks, glancing down at Himuro’s face, at the way their hair is tangled together on the pillow like it’s the most normal thing to happen.

“You’re not just talking about today, are you,” Himuro asks, curling under Murasakibara’s arm and cuddling up next to him. “I don’t know. What do you want to do, Atsushi?”

Himuro asks that question a lot, Murasakibara thinks – he always has. He wonders if it has something to do with Himuro being unable to express his emotions correctly, bottling it all up inside until he boils over - maybe asking someone else their opinion helped him express his own better. He’s not sure, but either way, it’s kind of an annoying question. He doesn’t _know_ what he wants to do; he’s here to perfect his skills, but what is he going to do after that? Stay in Paris and work at whatever café or restaurant will take him? Go back to Japan, be an anomaly among themed cafes and try to put his natural talent to use there?

( _Muro-chin isn’t in either of those places_ , he realizes. What _is Muro-chin going to do?_ a voice in the back of his mind brings up. Probably go back to LA with all the other beautiful people, forget this ever happened and Murasakibara will spend another six years wishing he’d been cooler, been nicer, been the type of guy that boys like Himuro were interested in as more than  friends until their mutual friends bring them together again.)

He takes a deep, slow breath and draws it out just as much when he exhales, a heavy sigh. “I want Muro-chin,” he informs him, hugging him tighter to his chest and resting his chin on top of Himuro’s head. It’s a simple admission that he doesn’t put much thought into; one that could be taken as temporary or long-term, depending on how Muro-chin understands it. He means it both ways.    


“I majored in business economics in college,” Himuro explains. “Majored in business economics, and saved money working as a nude model for the art majors at UCLA in between shifts at this pretentious coffee shop.”

Murasakibara makes a face. That doesn’t sound like something the Himuro he knew in high school would have picked. He’d always imagined Himuro would go back to his beloved LA and become something a little...cooler. Like maybe an artist, or a model like Kise-chin, or a high-profile movie actor. Something that got him the recognition he deserves (and it is _not_ like him to admit that, not for someone with so little natural talent, not for someone who works _so_ annoyingly hard) and not something so...mundane. That aside, he doesn’t know why Muro-chin is telling him this.

“Okay...?” he half asks, half states, hoping it’ll prompt him to continue. Muro-chin talking is okay, kind of soothing, not like the annoying customers and coworkers he deals with every day who exhaust him endlessly. He could probably listen to him talk for hours, actually.

“Meaning that I can probably find a job anywhere,” Himuro reasons, kissing the tip of Murasakibara’s nose. “I guess LA isn’t all it’s made out to be for the long term.”

Murasakibara _thinks_ he knows what he’s saying, but he could be wrong. “Muro-chin?” he asks, and he’s almost scared to get the response. “What do you mean?”

“Silly,” Himuro whispers, wiggling up higher on the bed so he can kiss Murasakibara softly, sweetly; tasting the salt in the butter from the croissant and the dry sweetness of the sugar on his lips and loving it. “I mean that if you want your Muro-chin, I’m here.” When he pulls back from kissing him, Murasakibara is smiling; really, truly smiling and if there were any doubt left in Himuro’s mind (unlikely) it evaporates in that instant. He guesses it’s a case of never knowing how much you had missed something until you have it back, of never knowing that feeling of close-to-complete until someone fills it for you. He wants to laugh – he guesses now all the boyfriends in LA that didn’t work out are explained, now; how could he date anyone long-term when the person he didn’t even know he’d been waiting for lived a continent away?

Murasakibara flops back onto the fluffy mountain of pillows at the head of the bed and clutches Himuro tighter to him. “Good. You’re not going anywhere ever again.”

“I don’t know about that-“ Himuro starts, but a low grumble cuts him off.

“No. Never.”

\--

Kagami gets a text late in the day while he and Kise are eating lunch at some overpriced café, and when he pulls out his phone it’s from Tatsuya.

_I might not be needing that plane ticket back to LA just yet, Taiga_

Kagami reads that one and looks at Kise, making sure he’s got his attention before he holds the phone up so he can read the message. Kise’s eyes scan it, widen in shock and surprise and he opens his mouth to say something and Kagami laughs out loud. “Wait for it.”

The next message comes a few seconds later. _Never considered myself the type to be a good fit for Paris of all places, but I guess I’ll try._ Kagami opens the attachment embedded in the message and everything he suspected is confirmed – it’s Himuro and Murasakibara, cuddled up in bed together, Tatsuya’s head on Murasakibara’s broad shoulder, the biggest smile he’s seen on his big brother’s face in a long time.

_Knew it_ , he texts back amidst Kise’s elated squeals and celebrations, catching the cup of coffee he damn near spills on himself in a very inelegant, un model-like fashion.

When he checks his phone again there’s one more message from Tatsuya: _Fuck off, Taiga._

\--

“What did he say, Muro-chin?” Murasakibara demands, trying to slide the phone out of Himuro’s grasp when he won’t read him Kagami’s last text message. “Why can’t I reeeaaad iiiit?”

Himuro hits the button to lock his phone and smiles. “It’s nothing,” he lies. _Really, he just doesn’t want to admit that Kagami saw right through him._

Murasakibara reaches over to snatch another pastry off the tray on the bedside table and to steal a sip of Himuro’s coffee, wrinkling his nose at how strong it is and once he’s done with his few bites of food and has set the coffee cup down, he turns back towards him, a smirk stretching wide across his face. “You’re a bad liar, you know,” he informs him, snickering when Himuro’s eyes widen in surprise. “I saaaw it already...Kagami said ‘knew it’, I saw.”

Himuro scowls and tackles Murasakibara back down to the bed, shoving his shoulder playfully. “It’s not what you think!” he teases, and instead of arguing with him (unusual, for him; who always likes to have the last word, who always wants to be the one to know more, be right, _win_ ), Murasakibara wraps his arms around him and squeezes him tight.

“I think it is what I think. I have Muro-chin now, right?”

Yeah, Himuro isn’t going to need that plane ticket back to LA for a long while.


End file.
